


puppet

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalistic Thoughts, Choking, Come Eating, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dark Abigail Hobbs, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Guilt, Hallucinations, Manipulative Relationship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Obsessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Reluctant Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "I thought you loved me," Abigail says, when he meets her eyes. Does she see her father in them, he wonders. "That's not enough, Will. You either love me or you don't."
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs & Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs
Comments: 24
Kudos: 85





	puppet

_We are her fathers now._

The words ring in his head, even as his breath catches. She approaches him like a lioness, sleek and steady-eyed. Her fingers drag along the back of Will's couch. She's got him pinned between the stairs and her own body – it's ridiculous, Will could easily overpower her, she's smaller and weaker than he is – but no, he couldn't hurt her. He can't, he -.

"You killed my dad," she whispers, and her eyes are bright and guileless in the same way a puppet's is. Strange, then, how Will feels like the one with the strings being pulled. "He loved me. Don't you love me like he did?"

"I -." He does. He has no choice but to. Garrett Jacob Hobbs is alive and well in his own skull and he looks upon his daughter like the carcass of an animal. His, _his_ , to control and take and conquer. His to worship, and oh God, how he longs to worship her. He could make necklaces from her teeth and bowstrings out of her hair. He could wrap her skin into a water canteen and strip every inch of flesh from her delicate bones and _fill_ her, even as she fills him. The marrow in her fingers could be mixed into pastes that will seal the house and make it watertight. The dye in her iris matches the clouds.

She takes a step closer, barefoot and comfortable in his house. "You took everything from me," she says, and Will can't argue but she's wrong – she's wrong. Nothing's gone, just replaced. He finds his hand against her cheek without conscious thought. Her exhale is warm, her eyes bright, she's so fucking beautiful Will doesn't know how to handle it.

There is an instinct to crush, to destroy. An instinct to fall to his knees and worship her until his dying day. To put his teeth wherever she lets him, wherever she wants him; he will be her dog on a leash, her puppet on a string, she merely needs to say the words.

"Abigail," he whispers, when she closes the last of the distance and puts her fingertips against the ridge of his eye socket. Her fingers are callused from guns and knives and handwritten essays. "You don't know what you're saying."

Her hand flattens, and tightens, and the water in her eyes freezes to ice. "You took _everything_ from me," she repeats, and shows her little milk teeth and wrinkles her nose like a wildcat and _God_ , Will _adores_ her. "But I know you didn't want to. You'd never hurt me, would you?"

Of course not. He could, but he won't. Isn't that how monsters show their love?

Her lips touch his like a knife slides home and Will collapses as a dying star. She laughs at him, shaky and startled at how easy it is to get him to love her. Of course he loves her, he would die for her. He _will_ die for her, and he will hurt for her, and do whatever she desires of him.

She curls her hand in his hair, deepens the kiss with parted jaws and searching tongue, and Will feels the puppet strings _tug._ And he can't fight her, even when she presses him against the wall and he ends up sinking into place on the stairs. He doesn't fight her when she pushes between his knees, and then over them, so that he has no choice but to support and hold her.

Her jacket is too large and easily shed, and when she unwinds the scarf from around her neck and cinches it tight around Will's throat instead, like collaring a dog, Will's entire body shivers. She is young and it shows in her kiss, mostly tongue and sharp teeth. But he lets her bite him, lets her dull her fangs on his lips and his jaw. She deserves it, his lioness has found her first hunt.

"It's okay," she soothes, when he flinches at the touch of her hand to his thickening cock. Her other hand remains steady on the back of his neck, nails in the scarf, holding him like a dog. "It's okay." She kisses his warm cheek, his hair, his forehead. She shouldn't be soothing him. He should be taking care of her.

"It's not wrong," she tells him. He clenches his jaw but immediately relaxes when she kisses him again – he owes her pleasure and acceptance, she is his, his precious little girl, his perfect huntress, he loves her so much it's an ache in his chest, around his heart that's being crushed by his own lungs. "You're not really my dad. I know you love me, though."

She pauses, and meets his eyes in challenge. "You love me, don't you, Will?"

" _Yes_ ," he breathes, he does, he has to. When he touches her waist he feels it twice over, like he has four hands, and two of them are cold and rotting and the other set is hot and alive and has claws. He flattens those ones, the living ones, on her back, pulling her closer in his lap and kissing her until she gasps, and figures out how to grind against his erection, and holds him like they are passionate young lovers sneaking something sacred in an abandoned parking lot.

"You're not going to send me away." Her voice is low and breathless and Will wants to wrench her vocal cords out with his teeth, wants to hold them in his hands so that he's the only one who ever hears her voice again. But instead he shakes his head and kisses her, and she smiles. "Then we should go upstairs. Do you have a bed upstairs?"

He does.

She's small and light in his arms as he pushes himself to his feet and hauls her up. She laughs, wrapping her legs around his hips, clutching at his shoulders as he carries her up to the bedroom he never uses except as storage. There's a mattress in there, though, and he lays her out on it like his most precious jewel. His hands touch lion skin and he can feel her claws when she wraps her fingers in his hair.

She sighs, tipping her head back, and stares up at him with a victorious smirk. "You want to taste me?" she asks, but it's not a question, and Will feels another string _yank_ on him, sending him to his knees between her feet. She sits up and scoots forward so she's on the edge of the mattress, and Will salivates against her stomach as she pets his hair from his face.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, Abigail."

She blinks down at him, almost surprised, perhaps, at his passivity. His eagerness. But Will is on his knees at the throne of his queen and he loves her so much. He has only ever wanted her to feel good, to be happy, and now he _can_ – now he can love her and touch her as much as she wants. He'll taste her, eat from her hand and her belly, he'll fill it in turn.

She smiles at him, proud. "Stand up," she says, the command like a whip across his face. Will does, though he is hunched and shaking, staring at her. He watches, breathless, as she bites her lower lip and slowly peels her shirt and sweater up and over her head, tossing it to one side. Her skin is ghostly, so pale she looks like a fallen star, smooth except for that single mark across her neck.

He wants to rip it open and stain her red. He wants to erase it from existence.

She undoes her jeans and shimmies out of them, kicking them to the floor, so she's just in her underwear and bra. Both, a pale pink to match the flush on her face. To match the hue of pork half-cooked. The heat is unbearable in the room, like a pressure cooker all along Will's skin.

She regards him with an arched brow, and then sighs, and leans back, on her elbows. She lifts one leg and hooks her toes around the back of his knee, bringing him forward again. "You'll make it up to me, what you took," she tells him, in the same voice Will imagines God had when giving His Commandments. "Eat."

There's no fear. She's not afraid of him, no longer the wary doe. She is fierce and strong and Will hates how much he needs her, how easy it is to sink to his knees and pull her underwear down her legs, and off, with a reverential touch. She has a light dusting of hair, flesh slick and pink, a tiny line in her skin from the lining of her underwear.

Will tastes, that, first. He kisses the soft skin between her navel and pubic bone, and breathes her in, eyes closing. She wraps her fingers in the scarf she tied around his neck and pulls on it until he chokes, shoulders rolling up.

"Eat, Will," she whispers, other hand brushing tenderly along his jaw. "Make me feel good. You owe me."

He does, he does, he _will_. Nothing exists but the desire to please her. He wraps his fingers around her thighs and spreads them out, shouldering his way between them, and lowers his mouth. His lips part and he licks at her soft skin, easily finding where she's open and starting to get wet.

She tastes _divine_. Nothing has ever tasted this good, he knows this. He can't imagine how much better it will be after he's been inside her. She sighs, and spreads her legs further, giving him more room. He nuzzles her until he finds the sensitive bump of her clit, cups his tongue and sucks on it, making her shiver.

She tugs on the scarf and he answers her eagerly, shoving his tongue inside her and flicking it up. He learns that she likes constant pressure on her clit, likes the gentle edge of his teeth in her flesh. Likes it when he sucks at her; a man dying of thirst ready to drown in the oasis of her body. She oozes slick onto his tongue that he licks up eagerly, fingers tightening in her thighs as her breathing gets heavy.

"That's good, Will," she breathes, making him moan. "You're being so good. Such a good Daddy."

Part of Will recoils at the name. A larger part trembles at it, at the way she gasps the word. Will isn't sure if, inside his head, Garrett Jacob Hobbs is the source of the horror or the pleasure. He aches, every part of him aches to be inside her, to devour her from the inside out. To plant a seed in her holy ground and watch the twisted thing that grows from it.

He should be careful. Warnings like birth control and fertility ring in his head but it doesn't matter, it all meets a stone wall and goes silent when she pulls on his hair, arching her hips up, commanding him to lick deeper, suck harder, to _bite_. He does, he does, he has to. Every pleased noise he wrings from her brings nourishment and silence in his skull.

She tenses up, suddenly, whimpering when he presses his thumb to the slick skin. He doesn't dare penetrate her, not yet – she is holy and untouched and though he desperately wants to pierce her, with bullets and claws and his fingers, he won't. Not yet, not _yet_ -.

"Come on, Daddy," she whispers. "Make your baby girl come."

"Oh, _God_ , Abigail." The words are muffled, groaned into her slick skin. He slides his finger inside her and rubs at the rough patch, seals his lips around her clit and sucks as hard as he dares, the tip of his tongue flicking slowly as she starts to tighten up around him. She's virgin tight, wet and hot as sin, and cries out so sweetly when he makes her come, gushing slick around his finger.

She loosens her hold on the scarf, giving him air as a reward. He gasps, finger still buried inside her, and rests his forehead on her quivering stomach. She's so warm, divine and wet, her fingers gentle in his hair.

Then, she tugs. "I want you inside me," she says.

Will has some courage somewhere, because he shakes his head. "No," he protests meekly. "I can't -."

"I thought you loved me," Abigail says, when he meets her eyes. Does she see her father in them, he wonders. They're both brunets, both old enough to have a teenage daughter, both with gazes that want to devour her whole. "That's not enough, Will. You either love me or you don't."

Will flinches, but can't go far with how tightly she's holding him. She sits up, cups his face, and kisses him, greedily licking the stain of her own slick from his mouth, sucking it from his tongue. He doesn't fight her as she unbuttons his sweat-stained shirt and pushes it off his shoulders. She sighs against his mouth, strong legs wrapping around him as he rises on his knees.

"You're not going to hurt me," she says. "You're going to do what he couldn't. You're going to be a good Daddy, aren't you?"

He has to, doesn't he? How else can he show her he loves her? If he cannot eat her – and he won't, he won't – he can worship her just the same. He kisses her and pulls at the tie in the end of her braid, unravelling the thick, dark hair until he can wrap his fist in it.

She smiles and sits back, eyes dark, cheeks so red they look bloodstained. Will's shaking hands unfasten his jeans and push them down, his underwear following as she sheds her bra, so both of them are bare. When he flattens himself over her he feels sick to his stomach.

But oh, what balm it is, to feel how she shivers and arches up into his hands. His hands, rough and callused as her father's must have been, as they travel the unchartered lands of her body. He lowers his head and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it gently, tongue mimicking the way he licked her clit until she lets out a rough, sweet moan. She's touching herself, back of her knuckles bumping Will's leaking cock as she rubs at her clit and spreads herself wide in invitation.

"Please, Daddy," she whispers, wide-eyed, guileless, poisonous, _snarling_. She's caught the scent of blood, now, and Will gasps as she wraps her wet hand around his cock and rubs his cockhead against her. He knows how wet she is, now, how tight she'll be.

"Please," she says again. "I'm hungry. I'm empty."

And what role does a father have, except to comfort and nurture and feed? To protect and cherish and worship her, yes, that's his role, now. That's his purpose in life.

Surrender feels like torture, and she parts for him like a wife, as though they've been doing this for years. Will sees knives going into the bellies of deer and other sweet little girls as he pushes inside her, as he cups her breast and her neck and kisses the soft sigh she gives him, feeding him air. She's warm as Hell around him, blistering, so tight it's suffocating. Will can't breathe.

" _Abigail_ ," he moans, as she tightens her grip on the scarf. He doesn't think he could contain his own blood without her stemming the flow. He buries his face in her neck and kisses the scar there with nothing short of utter devotion.

She sighs. "You feel so good, Daddy," she whispers, soothingly, as the snake whispers to the mouse when it tightens its coils. "So good. Thank you, Daddy, thank you."

And Will is ruined. He was ruined from the moment he touched her. From the moment he put ten rounds into Garrett Jacob Hobbs' chest. He hears, somewhere far away, a sound like applause, as his nails dig into her hip and her shoulder and he starts to move. It's not romantic, it's not slow, monsters don't love like that. It's fierce and passionate and she's moaning into his mouth, tugging at his hair and scarf and leaving sharp red lines down his back.

"Harder," she commands, and another puppet string tightens. It might break, leaving Will weak and unmoving, but for now it only compels him on. She feels so small beneath him, a compact creature of coiled muscle and sleek flesh. A lioness who came and demanded he mount her, and Will is helpless.

He clenches his eyes tightly shut and sucks a wet kiss to her thunderous pulse. His hand reaches between them, finding sensitive and swollen flesh; her clit, which he rubs as best he can, as she moans loudly and wraps her legs higher on his back.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers, as she starts to go tight. "Fuck -."

"Come inside me, Will," she says, and tightens her legs. "Come, that's it, give me what I want. You feel so good, I want to feel how much you love me."

Sex isn't love. He doesn't want her to ever figure that out.

He obeys, because he is helpless. His hips jerk in obedience, his grip on her going tight as he floods her, releasing all that weight and pent-up desire like water from a burst dam. He can feel it leaking back out of her even as he goes still, softening inside her.

She sighs, and releases him. He knows the order, unspoken though it was – he slides down her, kisses her red chest and peaked nipples, her tense stomach, until he finds the swollen mess he left of her. He drinks her down, their combined tastes like new oxygen on fire, making his skull burn.

He licks at her, hungry, ravenous, even as his neck starts to ache and his jaw gets sore. She comes when he sucks on her clit and rubs his thumb over her entrance, arching off the bed with another quiet whimper. Then, with a sigh so quiet and satisfied it's like the final nail in the coffin, she goes lax, and grins up at him sleepily.

"We're doing that again," she says. Will feels another string in him being tugged as she unwraps the scarf from around his neck.

He gives her his shirt to clean up with and fetches her some water. He listens to her go to the bathroom, and then she settles down in that bed and happily falls asleep. Will can't sleep. He paces around his house in a state of undress he can't correct. Every time he sees his reflection, sees the lines she carved into his back, the kiss-swollen state of his lips, the lingering flush on his neck and chest, it's a reminder. Penance, or guilt, or glee.

Hobbs won't stop smiling at him from the corner of the room.

There's a knock on the door when Will is halfway through a bottle of whiskey, still in just his underwear. He opens it without looking. Hannibal is there, and Will flushes as, immediately, his nostrils flare, and he looks Will up and down with a calculating air.

His head tilts. "Is Abigail here?"

"Yes," Will rasps, and swallows another mouthful straight from the bottle.

Hannibal says nothing, for a while. Then, "I see."

"It's exactly what it looks like."

Hannibal doesn't visibly react, though Will isn't sure that the gleam in his eyes is outraged, or horrified. "Was it you, or her father who made love to her?"

Will recoils, again. Glows with satisfaction, again. "I don't know," he answers honestly.

Hannibal nods. He's dressed for the weather; it's cold outside, but it doesn't touch Will as he trembles and aches and burns from the inside. "Will it happen again?"

"Probably."

"Then it's best you find out. One of you cannot remain forever."

Will frowns, and looks to Hannibal in question. Hannibal merely smiles. "I brought dinner," he says brightly, and Will notices the large cooler hanging from his shoulder, then. "I imagine you're both hungry. May I come in?"

Like a fucking vampire. Will kills the bottle and steps back, rubbing his hand through his hair. "I'll get dressed and wake her up," he says. "And I need to shower."

"There's no rush," Hannibal replies mildly. "But you needn't do so much for my benefit. I'm under no illusions about what happened here."

"And you don't care?"

"Should I? You're consenting adults." He pauses. "I assume."

Will doesn't know if that's true. It doesn't feel like something as obvious as consent.

"I was helpless," he murmurs.

"You, or Hobbs?"

Will doesn't have an answer to that, either. He clears his throat and sets the empty bottle down on the table, beside Hannibal. The dogs have stirred, alerted by Hannibal's presence, as somehow they've become best friends while Will was away.

"I'll go shower," he says again. Hannibal smiles at him, and gives him a gracious nod. Will flees upstairs and passes by the room he left Abigail in. She's awake, dressing slowly. She looks up at him as he passes by.

"Hannibal is downstairs," he tells her, so she's not startled. She bites her lower lip, and nods. "He's not going to be…weird about it."

She smiles, and arches a brow. "Are you?"

"Jury's still out on that."

She laughs, and nods, shrugging on her sweater. She pushes herself to her feet, and Will leaves. He listens to her padding down the stairs, listens to them talking, though it's too quiet to tell what they say. He even hears Abigail laugh. He hears applause.

Then, he turns the shower on scalding hot, and doesn't listen to anything at all.


End file.
